


Sexting for Wizards

by NobilisReed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Auror Hermione Granger, Auror Ron Weasley, F/M, Harry Potter is a Wanker, Lots of Wanking to be Perfectly Honest, Photography, Podfic, Podfic Length: 10-20 Minutes, Post-Graduation, Ron's a Wanker Too Actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 16:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14937932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NobilisReed/pseuds/NobilisReed
Summary: Hermione is curious about the moving, talking people in wizard portraits. When she and her husband Ron have to spend a lot of time apart, she makes him a gift to make sure she stays on his mind.Now with podfic!





	Sexting for Wizards

[Click here to download the podfic.](http://traffic.libsyn.com/nobilis/NobilisErotica_409.mp3)

Hermione focused the camera on the wing-back chair, and locked it in place. Like many things in the wizarding world, the camera looked like it had come from a hundred years ago; a simple wooden box with a black lens in the front and a black cloth attached behind, set on an articulated tripod with various screws and clamps to keep it in place.  
If this had been a muggle camera, there would have been a timer to set, or a hand held shutter control, but it had none. Instead, she had learned a new spell that would serve just as well. After checking to make sure she was alone in the house she shared with her husband Ron, she disconnected the fireplace from the floo network, took off her clothes, and set her wand on the little side table next to the chair.

It had been something of a mystery to her, what kind of mind the moving people in wizard-made photos and paintings had. Her initial investigation found that paintings, especially oil paintings, usually had more personality to them, and were capable of interacting with viewers. Photographs couldn't talk, but could be reproduced in print, which was a good thing because otherwise newsstands would become very noisy places. 

Then she discovered that a wizard had developed a camera that made only a single image, but it was similar to a painting in that they could speak and interact with a viewer. With the help, oddly enough, of Draco Malfoy, she had obtained one of these cameras in order to continue her research. It couldn't be reproduced the way other photos could, but it didn't take the level of skill and materials that a painting did.

The person in the image, if it could be called a person, seemed to know what the subject knew at the time of the image, and they shared the subject's general personality, but human minds were subtle, complex, and changeable things. Her first experiments had established that if she took a photo of herself while sleeping, the version of her in the image couldn't be roused for more than a moment. If she took a photo when she was ready to sit down for a delayed meal, that version would always be hungry, and left to herself would keep eating indefinitely.

Now she was going to put that knowledge to practical use. Ron had been away on Ministry business for two weeks, and she hadn't touched herself the whole time. That was the longest time she had gone without an orgasm ever since she discovered how good a flying broom felt between her legs when their enchantments had gone a bit out of whack. She was so horny she could almost scream, and that was saying a great deal; she hardly ever screamed.

She sat down in the chair and thought of Ron. She imagined his head between her legs, licking and sucking her most intimate places, using his gloriously talented lips, tongue, and even, gently, his teeth. She imagined his arms around her, his hands kneading her, his cock inside her. She bit her tongue and closed her eyes, remembering everything they had ever done together. Who would have expected that a bloke who had seemed so perfectly daft most of the time, could be such an impressive lover? But he was, and he was hers, forever and always, and that thought engaged her libido even more than everything else. 

When she felt about as worked up as she could be, when her body was begging for release, when it took an act of will to keep from putting her fingers between her labia and stroking herself to orgasm, she picked up her wand, pointed it at the camera, and said, "dicerecaseus." There was a flash of light and a puff of smoke. 

For a moment she considered running to the bedroom to retrieve "little Ron," the dildo the couple had made when Ron brought home the sculpting kit from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. But no, just in case the picture didn't turn out right, she didn't want to waste all this nervous excitement she had built up. With trembling fingers she pulled the film plate out of the camera. Unlike the muggle device this camera resembled, this one was capable of producing an image rather rapidly, if you knew the right spell. "Partum imago!" she said, and with a flick of her wand, the paper on the plate quickly darkened, revealing the wizard image in all its glory.

Hermione felt some amount of dissatisfaction, looking at her body this way--she had put on a few pounds since Hogwarts, but that was to be expected, with so much less running around chasing down horcruxes and fighting death eaters. And her hair, even now, still refused to go exactly where she wanted it to go. But even so, she had to admit, she looked pretty sexy. Ron was going to go mental.

*****

With a loud 'floof' sound and a surge of green fire, Ron found himself in the fireplace of the home he had made with his lovely Hermione. How a wanker like him had ever wound up married to the smartiest, prettiest, most adventurous girl at Hogwarts, he would never know.

He dragged his suitcase into the bedroom, hefted it onto the bed and immediately began hauling clothes out of it. Only after the flannel shirts, wool suit jacket and long underwear were tossed aside did he realize that his wife was there in the room with him. One double-take later, he realized that not only was she standing in the bathroom door, but she was wearing a black negligee. The gauzy fabric fell from the ruffles and lace at her shoulder in a sheer cascade over her breasts and stomach, ending in more lace that fell at just the right height to partially obscure her triangle of dark pubic hair. Even so, he could see she wasn't wearing anything below the waist. 

"Welcome home," she said, with a seductive smile that promised Ron everything he could imagine--and he could imagine an awful lot. 

Ron stood dumbfounded, mouth trying to form words but his brain had shut down.

Hermione sauntered closer, took the woolen boxers out of hands, and tossed them on the bed. "Why in such a rush?"

"Muh-muh-montserrat," Ron stammered. "Need to get to Montserrat. A couple of death eaters escaped there, they're sending Harry and me to go roust them up before they slip away." His trousers had gotten a good bit tighter at the sight of his nearly-naked wife.

"And not me?"

"I asked. Auror Sergeant Peterson said you couldn't come along." He pitched his voice low and imitated his superior's gruff, geordie accent. "Eef ah let ye goo doon tae tropical island with ye lady ye'll spend all yer time snoggin' on beach, an' noon chasin' death-eatas."

"That's not true! We'd catch the death-eaters first, and _then_ snog on the beach."

"Tried to tell him, but he wouldn't hear any of it. So I've got ten minutes to pack for an undercover investigation and then I'm off. I'm supposed to apparate straight to headquarters., or Peterson's going to have my head."

Hermione pouted, but only for a moment. "Fine. Then I'll help you get packed, and we can have five minutes together before you have to leave." She rushed over to the wardrobe and pulled out anything that seemed light enough for a tropical island. In the meantime, Ron was grabbing all the socks and underwear from his drawer in the dresser. When he turned back, she had already stacked his suitcase full of clean clothes, and had a funny smile on her face.

Ron dumped out his armload of socks and boxers. "What are you grinning about?" 

She shook her head. "Don't worry about it." Hermione closed the lid and latched the suitcase. "How much time have we got left?"

The clock on the bedside table said five minutes to ten. "Four minutes, if we leave a safety margin."

"Not enough, but I'll take what I can get." She pushed Ron onto the bed, undid his belt and freed his cock in a matter of seconds. He was already hard from seeing her in that nightie, but a few strokes of her hand brought him fully erect.

Three minutes left.

Hermione knocked the suitcase off the bed in her haste to mount her husband, sliding down onto him so hard there was a slapping noise as her thighs came down on his hips. She was so slick it briefly occurred to him that she must have been working herself up before his arrival, but that thought soon fled, crowded out by the feeling of her channel gripping his cock. He groaned and put his hands on her hips, concentrating on squeezing every ounce of pleasure out of the time they had left.

Two minutes.

Ron groaned and arched his body, meeting Hermione's movements with thrusts of his own. "Come for me," she said, "Fill me." He loved it when she talked dirty, when she broke her facade of rational, know-it-all Hermione, and let her passionate inner nature come out. 

One minute.

He was close, he could feel the tightness in his balls that meant an orgasm was coming, but it was all too fast and the pressure was starting to get to him. His instinct to hold back, to make sure Hermione was getting her pleasure too, had become a habit over the past few months, a habit that was hard to break. The grimace on her face let him know that she was enjoying this just as much as him, but even so...

Zero.

Fuck safety margins! Peterson could wait. With a growl he flipped Hermione onto her back and plowed into her like it was the last time they'd ever see each other. Sweat broke out on his brow, matting his hair onto his face like he was running a marathon. His body slammed into hers again and again, until finally, the dam broke and he spent himself inside her, muscles locked, pleasure flooding through his body. 

When he relaxed and rolled off of her, panting like a hard-worked horse, she grabbed her wand off the bedside table. "Accio washcloth!" A wet cloth, steaming warm, leapt to her hand from the water closet. With a few quick, efficient swipes she cleaned off Ron's groin, and then buckled him up again. "There. Now you won't have to explain to Peterson why you smell like sex."

Ron shook his head and pushed himself up onto his elbows. "I'll have to explain why I'm completely knackered!"

"Go, go, go! You know how he can be."

Ron rolled off the bed and grabbed his suitcase. If there was anything he was forgetting, he could get it in Montserrat. It was all worth it.

*****

Harry checked his watch. Two minutes past ten. Any moment now...

"Weasley!" came the roar from the sergeant auror's office. 

"Not back yet, sir!" Harry shouted back. "I'm sure he'll be along momentarily."

The door banged open and the shaggy-faced wizard who supervised the Rounding Up the Death Eaters squad stomped out. "This operation has schedule, Mister Boy Who Lived, does your partnah understand, eh?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sure he does, sir."

With a pop, Ron finally apparated into the closet marked "Apparations and Disapparations Only" in large, unfriendly letters. Ron banged his head on the glass before managing to get the door open and his suitcase maneuvered out into the squadroom. "Sorry I'm late," he said, sheepishly. "Hermione was home, and well..."

Sergeant Peterson threw his hands up in the air. "Canna folla simple instruction! Yer worse than yer partnah, aye. Well, get yerselves along! They're wai'in far ye."

Harry grabbed his knapsack and slung it over his shoulder, headed for the portkey rack. The staff had already pulled out the seldom-used Montserrat portkey and freshened up the magic for Harry and Ron to use to travel halfway around the globe, so as soon as he and Ron touched it, he felt that all-too-familiar feeling of being grabbed by the navel and flung into the void through a keyhole. Only this time, it didn't stop right away; the feeling went on and on as he tumbled through a confusing kaleidoscope of colors. And then, finally, he landed, nearly faceplanting into the hillside.

Ron landed a moment later, a bit more gracefully, but as soon as his feet touched down he staggered. "Blimey, I hate traveling by portkey." He looked terribly green around the gills. "Did you see that big blue box that almost hit us?"

"Only way to do it," said Harry, standing up and brushing himself off. They had landed on a hilltop, at just around sunset. A stiff breeze mitigated what would otherwise be a rather hot afternoon. To the north, a wide valley was nothing but gray-brown ash and rocks. South, the hillside was green with vegetation, but there was nothing resembling human habitation anywhere in sight. 

"Where's our contact?"

"So, the famous huntahs from the Ministry of Magic don't even know a simple revealing spell?" said a voice from way too nearby. Before Harry and Ron could react, a smiling man with short black hair pulled the hood of his invisibility cloak off of his face. "Good thing I wasn't a death eatah."

Ron shook his head. "Sorry we're late."

"Oh, don' worry about it, mon. Ma name's Gerald Finney. Welcome to Montserrat. If you'll follow me, we've got some death eatahs to track down. I'm sure with you two mastah huntahs, we'll have them in custody in no time." 

*****

Ron was disappointed to find that the death eaters were not, in fact, captured in no time. The trio made a lightning raid on the bungalow by the beach where the death-eaters were supposed to be holed up, but nobody was there. They did manage to capture the portkey the renegade wizards had planned on using to leave the island, but there was no clue why they hadn't been there, or where they might have slipped off to. He missed Hermione even more, knowing she'd have been able to pull some clue out that brought the whole affair to an end much quicker. 

Having worked through the night without anything but a few meager clues to show for it, Harry and Ron returned to their room at the little village's hotel, and prepared to get a good night's sleep to prepare for a full day's hunt in the morning. As Ron pulled his leopard-print pajamas out of the suitcase, a paper about eight inches square flipped out and landed on the floor between him and Harry. "Hey, you dropped something." Harry bent down and picked it up, and then his eyes grew wide. "Wha-how!"

Ron took one look at the paper and snatched it out of Harry's hand. "That is not for you, mate."

Harry's grin widened. "Hermione made you a porno!"

"And what if she did?" Ron glanced down at the image and then held it tight to his chest again. It was, in fact, a naked photo of Hermione, sitting on an overstuffed chair, wearing nothing but a lascivious smile.

"Come on, let me see," said Harry. "It's not like I've never seen her naked."

"Yeah, well, that was Hogwarts. Everyone gets with everyone by the time seventh year is done."

Harry cocked an eyebrow. "I'll show you mine."

"What? What are you talking about?"

Harry pulled out his wallet and produced a photo. It was a little curled and worn from being carried around, but the image was still sharp. It only took a glance to see who it was lying naked on a parlor sofa.

"Is that...Ginny? No, I don't want to see a naked photo of my own sister, what kind of perv do you think I am?" Ron backed away.

"Your loss," said Harry, tucking the photo back into its hiding place.

Shaking his head, Ron grabbed his pajamas and headed for the W. C. "Bloody wanker," he muttered.

Hermione's voice came from the photo after the door was shut. "Are we alone?" The sound was a bit distorted, like part of it was missing in a way he couldn't put his finger on.

Ron looked down at the photo again. Instead of demurely covering her breasts and crotch, the figure in the picture had her legs slightly apart, and was stroking her inner thighs with her hands. "Yes," Ron croaked, his voice catching. 

"Good," it replied. "Because I want you so much right now."

Ron wasn't sure what to say. He knew that the Hermione in the photo wasn't the real Hermione. This wasn't a magical communication device that would allow him to talk to her; this was a kind of a magical being of its own, a kind of homonculus. 

The image ran her hands up and cupped her breasts. "I am _so_ turned on right now."

Ron's shorts were getting tighter. "I can see that," said Ron.

"Are you touching yourself?"

"No?" 

"Why not?"

"I'm not sure if I should." His cock throbbed. It was starting to get cramped.

"You should," said the little Hermione in the image. "For me."

Ron set his pajamas on a little table next to the sink, propped the photo up on it, and pulled off his suit jacket. 

"Ooh, a strip show," cooed Hermione. "I like. She started humming a bump-and-grind tune. "Da-dat-daaa, da da-dat-daaaa..."

"I'm not much for dancing," said Ron, loosening his tie enough to get it over his head. 

"That's okay," said Hermione. "I'm not in the mood for a tease. Get your kit off and show me that cock."  
Ron hurried to comply. In moments he stood in the middle of the tiny room, completely starkers, with his rigid cock in his hand.

Hermione's fingers drifted down to her folds. "Oh, yes," she said. "Very nice."

Squeezing and stroking himself, Ron's breathing quickly took on a husky quality. _I shouldn't be doing this,_ he thought. It felt a little like cheating. But at the same time, he knew that Hermione had made the image for him, and what was he supposed to do with it, other than this? None of these thoughts distracted him enough to look away from the image of his wife frigging herself, or stop stroking his cock. 

And then, Hermione said, "Come for me." 

That was all it took. With a groan, he spurted thick gobs of spunk onto the floor and the table, narrowly missing the photo. Hermione squealed in response, the fingers of one hand sliding into her sex while the other squeezed one breast. Her half-lidded eyes locked on his as she shuddered and tensed in her own orgasmic bliss.

"Having fun?" Harry's amused voice came through the door.

Ron's erection immediately deflated. "You can be a real wanker sometimes, you know that Harry?" He took a washcloth and began cleaning up the mess he had made of himself and the bathroom floor.

"Not the only one!" said Harry.

*****

Hermione touched down on the back porch and set Harry's old Firebolt on the rack by the door just as the first rays of sunlight were creeping up over the hills. She shook the cramps out of her arms and legs as she opened the door into the tiny kitchen. Gibraltar was a long flight, even on the top-of-the-line broom. Since the trip was mostly over open ocean, she hadn't needed to use much in the way of concealment charms, but even so, she was worn out.

At least the mission had been a success. Two more death eaters captured, muggle hostages freed, memory-charmed and set back into their lives, another Wizarding community protected. Even better, Auror Sergeant Peterson had given her a week off. 

That is, if some other crisis didn't come along. But that was life for an auror.

A piece of paper floated up from the kitchen table and unfolded itself. _Sorry I couldn't be here to welcome you home,_ it said, in Ron's messy handwriting. _Testifying before the Wizengamot. Surprise for you in the bedroom._ Then it dissolved into a shower of pink sparkles.

Another note floated up from tea table in the parlor. _I hope you like it. I made it myself._ Then it, too, disappeared.

Hermione opened the bedroom door to find, on a bed strewn with rose petals, a stiff sheet of paper propped up on the pillows. She sat on the bed and picked up the photograph. Ron's image grinned his goofy grin, lying back on the bed with one arm folded behind his head, naked. Written across the bottom of the image were the words, _Brilliant camera. See you soon._


End file.
